Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum...
As Michael's fingers moved steadily down the beads, he began to watch the people around him. When he was a boy, his mother always told him that staring at folk was rude, but Mikey came to find that watching people go about their daily lives often showed kernals of truth, holiness, things people didn't even know they had. It seemed to steady him, too, which was exactly what the priest needed.
It was an odd crowd to be sure, but probably not so strange for this hour in uptown Baton Rouge. There was the girl on the lockers, her smoke wafting in his direction. She looked tired, perhaps confused. Another woman nearly ran into him, rushing past Michael to the ticket station. She smelt strongly of alcohol, another not-so-unusual thing for a place such as this. Over on the bench, a muscular man holding a sack lunch and a drink, apparently engaged in some people watching of his own. Michael followed his glance over to the goth punk with the music player. His music - or so he assumed that noise was supposed to be - had been blaring for sometime now, almost seeming a staple of the bus terminal itself. The kid stood up and glanced around. Michael's eyes darted back to the floor as the kid glanced at him. He seemed to mutter something to himself before heading across the street, probably to the bar.
Mikey was watching the goth saunter away when someone caught his eye. There, a little ways from the ticket booth. Michael was surprised he didn't see him before, being so close by. He wasn't quite old, not quite young - ageless, almost. Brown hair was neatly combed across his forehead. He wore a plain gray suit, white shirt, and simple necktie, looking all the world like any other businessman in the nation. The only thing that seemed to stand out was the way he stared. The man's gaze was intense, almost statuesque, seeming to bore a hole in the back of the goth's coat. Michael got the feeling that there was something deeply wrong here.
The priest clutched the rosary in his pocket as his mind raced. Should he do something? Was there really anything wrong to begin with? Strange things had been happening lately, maybe even hallucinations. This could be a symptom of some brain problem or chemical imbalance. Maybe he should go back to the hospital... No, something was definately wrong, or at the least strange. Keep cool, Mikey, he calmed himself. Real level-headed. At the least he could distract him, maybe catch something that way. What are you, CIA? he scolded himself. Still, if this guy really was some sort of threat to the goth kid, someone would have to play Saint Michael and intercede. Sancte Michael, ora pro nobis, he prayed quickly before walking up to the businessman.
"Excuse me, my son," Michael said in his most priestly voice, "but have you given thought to your Lenten obligations? Tomorrow is Friday, and the Church does ask us to obstain from meat." The businessman's attention still seemed focused on the goth. Before he could take a breath, Fr. Michael stepped in front of him. "Are you alright, child? You seem troubled." Sweat formed quickly under Michael's cassock. The moment seemed as tense as any he'd experienced...
(OOC: Um, distract check or something?)